No Safe Place
by m-erechyn
Summary: Excerpt: "'A massacre,' Aziraphale finishes quietly. The words are sour on his tongue." Historical fic; set at the time of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, France, 1572. A/C centric, a bit more Aziraphale than Crowley, but not overt slash.


Disclaimer: _Good Omens _and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

Thanks for reading! Feedback of any sort is absolutely wonderful.

_A/N: This is the last of my more introspective fics--_And What is Right? _and_ Nice _are the other two in the series (of sorts). Set during the St Bartholomew's Day Massacre. It helps to know some background, which can be easily be found on the internet... but of course, you can read this without any prior knowledge and still get a good idea of what's going on._

_The folks at_ lower-tadfield _seemed to really like this one (yay!) and... I hope you do too!_

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Aziraphale doesn't expect to see Crowley in here, but he does. The demon flings the doors open and winces. It's not surprising. Aziraphale is sitting calmly in a church. The air is saturated with holiness.

"My dear," Aziraphale says quietly, and walks towards the demon. "What are you doing here?" The preacher in his pulpit looks taken aback at this elegant nobleman walking out of his sermon, and the strange man in dark spectacles who is breathing heavily at the door, as if he has run—or flown—a great distance. The clergy quietly sits in their pews, curious, awed, but not disrespectful.

"Aziraphale," Crowley exhales. His voice is ragged now, not the smooth, slick tones that talked Eve into tasting forbidden fruit. The angel realizes the demon's hands and clothes are spattered with blood. It's not Crowley's own. Aziraphale looks at him, eyes wide, lips parting to ask a question but he's sure he already knows the answer.

"Something's happened," Crowley says, biting his lip in a rare show of anxiety. "It was supposed to be a wedding. There was an attack." Aziraphale inhales sharply. "The balance is gone, and people feel they have an excuse to kill."

"A massacre," Aziraphale finishes quietly. The words are sour on his tongue. He wants to be shocked, he wants to be surprised, but he can't feel anything but guilt. He knows how evil humans can be, and he's seen it, time and time again. He's tried to stop it, time and time again.

Crowley tries for a cynical smile, or possibly a smirk, but it comes off as strained; unusual for him. "Just thought I'd warn you." Religious wars are the angel's department, not his. Crowley doesn't care for religion, despite being an integral part of it—he is a demon, after all—preferring to make mischief as long as there are human souls for the tainting.

"I can only do so many miracles," Aziraphale whispers.

"Then do some now, before it's too late," Crowley shoots back, only a hint of panic in his voice. "I've got to be going," he adds quickly.

Back to the brothels and the taverns and the gambling dens, Aziraphale knows, where the demon will no doubt stir up sin even amongst bloodshed. He takes Crowley's soiled hands into his own, though only for a brief moment. Crowley squirms. He's still not completely used to helping Aziraphale, and it's even harder for him to acknowledge gratitude. He knows what's coming, and he doesn't like it.

"Thank you," Aziraphale tells Crowley, his voice heartfelt.

"Anytime," Crowley replies uncomfortably, and slips away.

Aziraphale turns to face the crowd; they sit in puzzled silence, having watched the curious exchange. He asserts his divinity—it doesn't happen often, but he can bend people to his will if need be—and begins to speak. His voice inspires obedience, and yet is still mild, still Aziraphale's and not that of some monstrous avenging angel.

"_On this day_," he begins, in fluent French; he's always had the gift of tongues, "_St. Bartholomew's day, there has been an attack. There has been violence, bloodshed, and death among the Huguenots_."

A murmur rises above the clergy, but their attention is focused on the small figure standing at the end of the church, whose quiet voice somehow seems to penetrate into their very minds. They are in a Huguenot church. This safe place is no longer safe.

"_Leave the area if you can. Avoid Paris. If you know of a safer realm, go there as swiftly as you can manage. The Huguenots are being slain as I speak._"

The whole building bursts into sound, and yet Aziraphale can still be heard over the din. "_Take your loved ones, and flee._"

His voice is more kind than commanding, and later some of the people who are present this day, the ones who will survive the widespread violence that will soon follow, these people will think they saw wings, fanning out of the back of Aziraphale's nobleman's garb.

Aziraphale knows that not all of these people will survive. Some will die in their flight. Some will go to the wrong area, the wrong place at the wrong time.

But he has a duty; he cannot flee. He must save lives, regardless of the religious beliefs attached. The clergy are talking amongst themselves, planning escapes, journeys away from home, and more of them leave the building with every passing moment.

Aziraphale slips out as well. He has miracles to perform, souls to save.

He tries not to think of all that will be lost.

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